


on top of the competition

by Deisderium



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Enemies to Lovers, Gymnastics, Hate Boners, M/M, Olympics, Qualifying for the Olympics, the author is ill informed about gymnastics, the real gold medals were the boners they had along the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25953202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium/pseuds/Deisderium
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that an athlete in the possession of a chance to qualify for the Olympics must be in want of a rival.It's just Steve Rogers's luck that his rival is unfortunately scorching hot, and if he were someone else entirely, Steve would, regrettably, love to bone him. He’s been annoyed by Barnes for years, on account of him being really good looking and also really good at what he does. But it’s worse now, because after a mysterious gap of nearly a year from gymnastics, Nick Fury waved his hands and just yeeted Barnes into the qualifiers, with none of the hard work and sweat that Steve has been putting in. It’s fucking infuriating.*In which Steve and Bucky are qualifying for the Olympics and Steve thirsts angrily over Bucky. That's it, that's the fic.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, a hint of background thorki
Comments: 81
Kudos: 312





	on top of the competition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crinklefries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crinklefries/gifts).



> Happy birthday, snuzz! You are such an excellent writer, enabler, and most of all, friend. I'm so happy that the supersoldiers, and more importantly dumbasses, brought us together. <3 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this gymnastics AU despite my knowledge of gymastics being "wow, flippy!" and "stick the landing." <3

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an athlete in the possession of a chance to qualify for the Olympics must be in want of a rival.

It's just Steve Rogers's luck that his rival is unfortunately scorching hot, and if he were someone else entirely, Steve would, regrettably, love to bone him. He’s been annoyed by Barnes for years, on account of him being really good looking and also really good at what he does. But it’s worse now, because after a mysterious gap of nearly a year from gymnastics, Nick Fury waved his hands and just yeeted Barnes into the qualifiers, with none of the hard work and sweat that Steve has been putting in. It’s fucking infuriating.

So Steve finds himself watching Bucky Barnes flip around all over the pommel horse with at least two whole emotions pulling at him, or at least, one emotion and one bodily urge. Steve is no stranger to the pommel horse himself, seeing as he, like Barnes, is hoping to qualify for the Olympics, but he's absolutely positive that his arms don't quite look like that when he does his flairs and spindles. Bucky Barnes's shoulders are absolutely packed with muscle, and Steve can see each one of them flexing as his legs swing around and around. The muscles in his shoulders bunch as he shifts his weight from arm to arm, and Steve has to suppress a _hhhnnnggh_ sound as he watches.

"Ah," Steve's teammate, Thor, says. "It's fury over the very fact of Barnes’s existence hours again, I see."

Steve considers refusing to acknowledge this statement, but, well, it's true. "He has no right to be so good and so hot," Steve says angrily. The thing where he didn’t work his way here is on the tip of Steve’s tongue, but he keeps it to himself.

Thor looks down at him, smiling. There's a long way down to look—Thor is six foot three, while Steve breaks five foot seven only if he stands on his tiptoes. "I'm sure he's equally confounded by your skill and attractiveness," Thor says consolingly.

Steve's only answer is a gusty sigh. The worst thing about having a rival is when that rival doesn't seem to know about the rivalry. They've been competing against each other since their college days, and Barnes is always unfailingly polite and friendly despite the fact that half the time Steve does nothing more than glare at him. It's disgusting, when it comes down to it.

Barnes finishes his routine with a series of handstands and absolutely sticks the landing.

"Disgusting," Steve says, just to make sure that he himself is clear on the point.

Barnes walks back over to his teammates—who are all equally annoyingly attractive, and yet somehow the fact of their existence doesn't infuriate Steve; it's a mystery and a conundrum as to why—to their general accolades and praise. Steve applauds along with the rest of his team in the spirit of good sportsmanship, but he has to admit that he's mad about it.

Somehow, across the competition floor, Barnes catches Steve's eye and his face breaks into a wide smile. The worst part is, Steve smiles back reflexively without even meaning to before he catches hold of himself and glares. The even worse than worst part is, that only makes Barnes smile back wider.

Abominable.

He means it.

*

The afternoon’s events progress; Steve doesn't mean to always watch Barnes, and yet he finds he always is. And for whatever reason, Barnes always seems to be watching him. It doesn't throw Steve off his game.

Well, it wouldn't anyway. He's a professional. But it especially doesn't because the feel of Barnes’s eyes on him always seems to push him to perform better. If they weren't deadly rivals, he would think that Bucky was his good luck charm. Unfortunately, he knows that the effect of Barnes watching him helps because of who Steve is as a person: hypercompetitive and very thirsty.

He's good at all the events, and he enjoys them all, but on the rings, his smaller frame and lighter weight are an advantage, and besides, it's his favorite event. When he's up on the rings, it's the closest he's ever come to feeling like flying, like gravity doesn't apply to him personally. It's a freeing sensation, knowing exactly how to throw his weight, trusting in his arms and the muscle and skill he's built up over years to keep him safe in the air. And not only safe; as close to perfect as it is for him to come. He's damn good at this routine, and he's watched his own tapes trying to improve. He knows he looks good, poised and still on the holds and slicing through the air like a whip on the flips. And as always when he's competing against Barnes, the feel of those eyes on him only pushes him to go harder. Better. It feels good.

It's a strain on his muscles, but as always, the routine feels too short. If he were physically capable, he'd like to spend hours on the rings, pushing himself further and further. As it is, his every muscle feels the strain, his arms, his core, ass, and legs all tensed to hold himself still between sweeping motions. He flips over twice on the rings and then lets go, spiraling into a forward flip. He knows even before his feet hit the mat that he's got the landing perfect, and he's right.

He bends down, absorbing the impact with his legs, and then straightens up, arms spread. His teammates and his rivals applaud. He looks around, and it's like his gaze is magnetized—he's looking for Thor, for Sam, but the eyes he finds are Bucky Barnes looking right at him, with Romanov on his one side and the new guy whose name Steve can't remember, the brunet, both pale, faded shadows on either side of him.

For a moment, Steve feels like he could go over and talk to Barnes, and for once, maybe he wouldn't feel like everything they say is underlaced with acrimony. Maybe he could stop looking at him as his disgustingly hot rival, and maybe talk to him about how he looked up on the pommel horse. Well, not about what Steve was thinking about how he looked on the pommel horse. Not about the frankly exquisite musculature of his shoulders and deltoids and biceps and—well, his everything. No, Steve would keep his act together like a normal person, and talk to him about the moves he did, his frankly brilliant double leg circles and scissors. He would talk about it like someone with intelligent commentary about form, which he has, because he is himself a very good gymnast, not solely an angry thirst stalker, no matter what Thor says.

But none of that happens, because fucking Rumlow gets called up next. And when he does, Barnes’s face just...shuts down. Steve has to look away when Sam whispers a congratulations on his routine, and when he looks back, Barnes is gone.

Steve gets it. Rumlow's coach is Alexander Pierce, and Pierce used to be Barnes’s coach as well. Steve doesn't know the details behind the split, but it was...huh. It was right around the time Barnes dropped out of gymnastics for a while. He can feel his eyebrows draw together, but he makes himself shake it off.

It’s not his problem, anyway. He watches as Rumlow does a competent but not, in Steve's opinion, inspired routine. He gives a purely internal little hum of satisfaction when the judges' scores seem to agree with him.

But then he stops thinking about Rumlow, and can even ignore the way that Pierce is angrily stalking towards the judges, because Thor comes up to him and drapes a heavy arm over Steve's shoulders. Ordinarily, Steve absolutely hates that, because it emphasizes how much taller most people are than him, but Thor would make anyone feel small, so Steve tries not to take it personally.

"Stop watching these assholes and come watch the floor routine," Thor commands. "Loki is about to go on." There are always multiple events going on at any time during the trials, and Steve doesn't care about Rumlow beyond the way he'd seemed to upset Barnes—not that he cares about that either—so he lets himself be willingly led.

He sees the brunet who'd been standing beside Barnes stretching on the spring floor, even though he's sure he's already warmed up, and honestly, it's kind of weird that he doesn't know him from other events. Competitive gymnastics is not _that_ big a sport, and he tries to keep up with other Olympic hopefuls. He says as much to Thor, and Thor replies, "Yeah. He's an American, but he spent the last eight years in Finland. He only moved home two years ago." There's something intense about Thor's voice when he says this, and Steve looks at him and raises an eyebrow. Thor shrugs, taking his arm off Steve's shoulder, which, good; he wouldn't put up with that from just anyone, and says, a little wistfully, "I knew him when we were kids."

"It'll be good to have him back then, right?" Steve says.

"We'll see," Thor says, but there isn't any time for Steve to ask any further questions before the music starts and Thor stops paying attention to him at all.

The beginning notes of the fucking opening music from _The Phantom of the Opera_ play, a little tinny through the speakers, but still plenty loud. Loki strikes a dramatic pose—is there glitter on his leggings?—and holds it for a minute. Well, it's a second, but it feels like a minute. Loki incorporates more elements of dance into his routine than most men, Steve sees immediately, but it works for him. He doesn’t skip on the athletic elements either, going from a pike flip right into a triple full, followed by a double layout. Then he drops into a planche, and slowly goes backwards, drawing his legs up over his torso until he’s in a full handstand. He drops into a cartwheel, then does a flair with full spindle into a headstand and back to a flair. It’s a move that’s always looked more like breakdancing than anything else to Steve, and Loki’s legs slice through the air, his arms lifting and replacing to support him like clockwork.

Steve is dumbstruck. Loki's performance was so fluid, it felt like dance, even in the more athletic parts of the routine. Steve only wishes his floor routine were that graceful.

"He's amazing," he turns to tell Thor, only to see that Thor has already arrived at this conclusion himself. Neither of them had talked during Loki's routine, both transfixed, but Thor looks absolutely dumbfounded.

"Amazing doesn't begin to cover it," Thor says, his voice a bit breathless. Steve figures he's getting a glimpse of what Thor sees while he watches Bucky, minus the anger. "I've never seen anything like him."

Thor takes a breath, and Steve is pretty sure he is about to get, like, some kind of sonnet or ode on the subjects of Loki's charms, but instead at that exact moment Sam and Maria walk up.

"Hey, y'all want to get a drink after this?" Sam says.

"We've got another day of competition after this," Steve protests.

"Nobody said you had to drink alcohol," Sam says. "Romanov invited us out about an hour after this wraps up."

"Oh yes," Thor says firmly. "We are definitely going out, especially if the rest of their team will also be there."

"You just want to talk to Loki," Steve says.

Thor shrugs. "It's good to catch up with old friends, Steven."

"Well," Maria says, "they didn't give us a strict attendance list of who was going to be there, so you're taking your fate into your own hands."

Steve looks up. He's not even looking for Barnes—he's _not_ —but somehow his eyes catch on Bucky Barnes in close conversation with Natasha Romanov. Barnes looks up, sees Steve watching him, and smiles. Steve immediately looks away, but it's too late, he's been caught. He sighs.

"Sounds like some solid team bonding time," he says.

"And maybe a chance to see what Barnes looks like in regular clothes, huh," Maria says.

Steve points at her and squints, hoping he looks at least a little bit menacing. "Don't you start, too."

"Saying that I'd need to start implies that I ever stopped," she says, grinning.

Steve sighs again. He makes sure that it's loud and gusty and annoying. Not that that's ever stopped anyone, either.

*

Despite the fact that everyone has to perform the next day, everyone, including Steve, gets a drink at the bar where they're supposed to meet the other gymnasts. Steve doesn't know if it's supposed to be just his team and Barnes’s team, or who else might be invited to this.

The bar is one of those places that brews their own beer and is also a gastropub, and Steve reviews the menu in hopes of finding something that will work with his nutritionist's guidelines and his allergist's so that he doesn't have to drink on an empty stomach. If he holds the dressing on the salad and orders extra chicken, he can probably make it work. Of course, alcohol is _definitely_ not on his nutritionist's guidelines, but he orders a hard seltzer water instead of a beer on the theory that it's at least somewhat less wildly bad than anything else he could probably get.

He and Sam go to the bar with everyone's drink orders in the hope that it will be easier for just the two of them to actually get to the bar, which is packed full of people, but Steve has sharp elbows, so when they get a place at the bar, he defends it.

The bartender is giving them their drinks when Steve feels someone slide up to the opposite side of him from Sam, and even before he looks, he can feel the heat rising up off a body, and he knows that it's Barnes even before he turns his head and sees him next to him.

Barnes is leaning against the bar with what Steve can only describe as a smirk on his face, and he lifts an eyebrow when Steve turns around with what Steve thinks must be the fakest surprise in the history of fake surprises given that he bellied up to the bar next to Steve.

"Fancy seeing you here," Barnes drawls.

"Yes, what a complete shock, since both of our teammates invited us to the same place." Sam drives a stealthy—or maybe not that stealthy, given the way Barnes laughs—elbow into Steve's side. Sam is always wanting Steve to be nicer to people, which makes sense, since Sam himself is one of the most ridiculously nice people that Steve knows. Unfortunately, being nice is often predicated on being patient, and while Steve does in fact have a well of kindness, he's not much on patience. Still, he dredges up a smile from somewhere and says, "Glad we could all get a chance to relax."

"I don't know, is this relaxing?" He looks around the crowded bar, and Steve takes in the throngs of drunk people standing too close together, and concedes that no, it's not exactly like chilling with the movie in the hotel room.

"Maybe not. I'm glad we could all get together and have fun, then," he says, and that makes Barnes smile for real, a small, warm thing that lights up his face, and even reflects a little light on Steve. The bartender comes back with Sam and Steve's drinks, and the two of them gather them up as Barnes turns to place his order.

"See you back at the table," Barnes says as they leave.

Steve didn't know they had a table, but there it is, all of their teammates mingled together. Sam and Steve pass out the drinks and it seems possible that some of their friends were pre-gaming, because Clint is doing that thing where he tries to make everyone play him at darts, because he knows he'll beat everyone. It's annoying, but it's a new audience he can win money off of—all the rest of them have long since learned his tricks.

It's kind of nice to see, all of them mingling and talking together, and Steve doesn't even get his hackles up when Barnes comes back with a handful of bottles of beer, fingers wrapped around their necks, and sits next to Steve. Maybe only one hackle; half a hackle, really. Even if he did get the easy ride to the qualifiers.

Maria was right. Steve is glad for a chance to see him out of his gymnast's uniform. Because while it's very nice that spandex clings to every inch of him, Steve has to admit that the jeans and green button-down that he's currently sporting are also a very good look. When he sits down next to Steve, the denim stretches across his thighs. His shirt stretches too, across his broad chest and the shoulders that Steve knows full well are chiseled and muscular. He could probably draw every dip and ridge of muscles from memory, which is annoying only because Barnes himself is so annoyingly attractive and competent.

"You look like you're deep in thought," Barnes says, and Steve realizes that he's gotten lost in his own head.

"Just thinking about tomorrow," Steve says, which is a lie, but sounds better than "just thinking about you." Steve doesn't want to sound like a stalker when Barnes is technically his enemy. Rival. Whatever. "Trying to figure out how I can possibly get my floor routine as dramatic as Loki's."

Barnes laughs and takes a sip of his beer. Steve absolutely does not watch the motion of his throat as he swallows. "You can't. Nobody's as dramatic as him."

"Thor said he knew him when they were kids," Steve says, pleased to have gotten the subject changed away from whatever thoughts he may or may not have been having.

"Yeah," Barnes says. "They were—are?—stepbrothers. Loki says their parents were married for a hot minute. Maybe a year and a half?"

"Huh," is Steve's contribution to the conversation at that. He can’t wait to quiz Thor on this in the most annoying and pointed fashion possible.

Barnes takes another swig of his beer, and Steve follows up with a long sip off his White Claw, just to avoid all the obvious conversations. He's going to enjoy giving Thor some shit about this, though.

"Hey, I wanted to say," Barnes says, and Steve can't help but notice that he seems a little more hesitant, "you looked great out there today."

"Oh," Steve says, and regrettably, he can feel his face heating up, remembering what his own thoughts were while Barnes was going through his routine on the pommel horse. "I, uh—"

"Come on, Steve, accept the compliment," Barnes says earnestly and oh no, this is awful. Steve doesn't have a complex or anything—he knows he's good at what he does. He's trying out for the Olympics, for fuck's sake. He can listen to Coach Fury list all of his flaws and every error that he's ever made with clear eyes and unclenched jaw, but apparently all it takes is an earnest compliment from the object of his hate thirst to completely unravel him.

"Thanks, Barnes," he manages to stammer out. He can feel his face flushing a deep, embarrassed red.

Bucky smiles and laughs, and Steve probably shouldn't be noting the precise angle of his jaw as he tips his head back, but he can't help it. "Please, call me Bucky."

"You looked really good out there, too" Steve says, and then he panics, because for all that he was thinking that he could give good, incisive commentary earlier, now that it's his chance to do it, the only word he seems to be able to think is _shoulders,_ because he was unable to keep his eyes off of them while he was watching Bucky. He tries to summon up some of the things he'd thought earlier. "You, um, you've really gotten so much more fluid over the last couple of years. It was great to watch you on the pommel horse."

He winces, because he sounds like a complete bumblefuck who doesn't know what he's talking about when he does in fact know how to comment intelligently on the thing he does and thinks about and obsesses over the vast majority of his waking hours. But Bucky's gaze drops to the beer in his hands, and he seems as flustered as Steve, if not more so, by the compliment.

"I've been working on it," he mumbles. "Thanks."

Steve isn't sure what he said wrong. But that brief moment of easy rapport is gone, and the two of them sit together uncomfortably for a few minutes that feel like an eternity, until Romanov leans across the table and says something in Russian that sounds terribly biting—or maybe that's just the sound of the language.

Bucky snaps something back in, his brow furrowing. Romanov shakes her head in what appears to be exasperation, pokes him in the shoulder, and walks off.

"You both speak Russian?" Steve says and then wants to kick himself because, duh, obviously they do.

"That's how we met," Bucky says, seeming to relax again. "She tutored me in college."

"And then you both ended up on the gymnastics team?"

Bucky smiles, and Steve finds himself cataloguing every faint smile line around his eyes. It doesn't mean they're not enemies, he reminds himself, it just means he has a nice smile.

"Yeah. She's from Russia originally, she studied gymnastics there as a kid. I thought maybe for once there would be something that I could tutor her in, but that turned out not to be the case."

"She kicked your ass in that too, is what I'm hearing," Steve says.

Bucky laughs again, and Steve wonders what it is about that sounds that makes him want to hear it again and again, to drink it in. It's probably related to whatever it is that has him admiring Bucky's muscles and movement and everything when they are on opposite teams, so Steve doesn't let himself dwell on it too long.

"You're not wrong," Bucky says, and his face creases up in that appealing smile again.

It ends up being surprisingly easy to talk to Bucky, occasional awkward stumble aside; or maybe it isn't all that surprising. They do have a lot of experiences in common, after all. They've both put aside huge swathes of their life to focus on this sport they both love. And if there are other things they don't talk about—Bucky's leave from the sport, Steve's mom—well, those aren't the kind of things one talks about one drink and one conversation in.

Steve wraps it up after only the one drink. It's one more than Coach Fury would've said he ought to have, but it feels good to unwind after a long, tense day, and he doesn't think it's going to impair his performance tomorrow.

He tells Bucky a surprisingly easygoing goodbye, and he, Sam, and Maria all start heading back to the hotel together. Steve looks over and notes that Thor is still at the bar with Loki. He texts him a quick reminder that the rest of them are heading out, but sees that Thor doesn't even pull out his phone. Steve rolls his eyes. He'll text him again when they get back to the hotel, maybe call him. But he also knows the taller man could drink Steve under the table any day of the week, so maybe he'll be fine.

At any rate, it was a more pleasant evening than he expected, and he's happy to throw himself into bed. He expects nerves to keep him awake, but instead he falls asleep quickly.

*

The next day's routines pass in a blur.

Steve does well on his floor routine; it isn't as good as Loki's, but it's one of his weaker events overall, and he knows that he gives one of his better performances regardless. He can't help thinking, though, as he finishes, looking around the crowd for one particular set of blue eyes, that he'd have done better if Bucky had been watching. The competitive spirit of rivalry, and all that.

However late Thor stayed out the night before—and he hadn't answered either of Steve's texts, nor his phone call—he looks as fresh as a daisy when he gets on the pommel horse. Steve absently notes that Thor's arms are even bigger than Bucky's, his muscles more defined—not that it's a competition, and thank God, or Steve would always lose—but somehow, Steve doesn't have the same, perilously thirsty reaction. Thank God—again—because that would be weird.

Loki also does well on the rings, although Steve thinks privately, and maybe a little smugly, to himself that he was better. It's good to know one's strengths and weaknesses. He thinks he's fairly clear-eyed about both, at least on the spring floor. Outside of that...he knows he's a mess. It's okay.

Bucky's floor routine doesn't have the flair that Loki's did, but it's good. Great, even. Steve watches so intently that he doesn't notice Thor sneaking up next to him to drive an elbow that ought to be a deadly weapon into his side.

"Ugh," Steve says, rubbing his ribs (high up, nearly his armpit—thanks, Thor) and glaring at his friend.

"You don't seem to be quite as angry at Barnes's existence today," Thor observes.

It's true—Steve's been watching without his background levels of rage today. But he doesn't want to admit that he had a nice time talking to Bucky yesterday. His moral outrage over Bucky’s easy ride should take more than a chat with a good-looking guy to crumble.

"So did you close the bar down last night or what?" Steve says in a transparent attempt to deflect the conversation away from himself and onto Thor.

Thor smiles. "No, not exactly. We stayed until after Clint took everyone's money, and then I went back to Loki's hotel room."

"Oh yeah?" Steve raises an eyebrow. "Did you spend the night there?"

"No," Thor says. Steve looks up. If his eyes do not deceive him, and they don't, Thor is turning a delicate shade of pink. "It's not like that. I stayed there for hours, but all we did was talk."

"Really?" Steve wonders how to bring up the whole stepbrother thing. "I guess you have a lot to catch up on. Although, to be honest, yesterday you seems like you would be pretty all over him given half the chance."

Thor actually hides his big face in his hands. Steve is delighted. "Well, yes, I would have, but that wasn't what he wanted to do."

"Does he think it's weird because you're stepbrothers?" Steve says, and then immediately wants to smack himself on the face. However he was going to bring it up, that was not the way.

"Oh God," Thor mutters. "That wasn't the issue at all. But we did need to catch up." He drops his hands away from his face and clears his throat, then fixes Steve with a look. "You never really answered my question about Barnes."

"Ugh, fine," Steve says. "Turns out he's really personable and charming and funny in addition to being really hot, and it's getting harder and harder for me to sustain the necessary levels of hate, is that what you wanted to know?"

"Why does there have to be a necessary level of hate?" a voice asks from slightly behind him, and Steve jumps about ten feet in the air, subjectively.

Romanov draws even with him, aggressively drinking from her sports bottle.

"It's a figure of speech," Steve says in a firm voice. He absolutely doesn't squeak, he promises. "Necessary for maintaining a competitive rivalry."

Beside him, Thor is laughing at him, and although Romanov's expression doesn't substantially change, he has the feeling that she's laughing at him too.

"Oh look," Steve says. "Sam's event is starting, gotta go." He exits the scene with the sad feeling that Romanov is not going to keep her trap shut, and this will definitely get back to Barnes—to Bucky. Surely it's only the fact that he's going to look like an idiot that's leaving a cold pit in the bottom of his stomach, not the thoughts that hate is certainly the wrong word, and certainly a word that seems bound to hurt someone's feelings—not that Steve should be worried about Barnes's feelings. He sighs and goes on to watch Sam's events, secure in the knowledge that this will be a mess entirely of his own making.

*

Steve's in his hotel room packing when he gets the phone call. He hasn't been able to focus on anything, so in actuality he's pretty sure he's folded the same shirt probably eight times. it doesn't matter. He's just killing time until he hears or doesn't hear. He's got a really terrible true crime show on in the background that he doesn't know why he's listening to since he doesn't even _like_ true crime shows, and has just about convinced himself that he's likely to be murdered the next time he leaves his hotel room when his phone rings.

He jumps, and the shirt falls into a crumpled pile on the bed. He jumps for the phone, which is on the bedside table _right next to him,_ and somehow fumbles the call open.

"Rogers," Coach Fury says in his deep, slightly acerbic voice. Steve's heart is pounding, his hands sweaty.

"Coach," he says, and he knows he sounds breathless, but Fury's not going to judge him for it.

"You made it, Steve," Fury says. "You're going to the Olympics. Congratulations."

Steve says something in return, or at least his mouth moves and noises come out, and it must not be anything too outlandish because Fury laughs, congratulates him again, and hangs up.

Steve sits heavily on the bed, staring into nothing, listening to the ringing in his ears.

He did it. He's going to the Olympics. Even if he fucks everything up and fall over in the middle of his floor routine, he's _going there._ It's amazing. It's what he's been working for his whole life, it feels like.

He wishes he could tell his mom.

He, Steve Rogers, is going to the actual fucking Olympics. He's going to be part of the team that tries to take the gold—and he wants that, suddenly, wants it almost more than anything. Well, he wanted it before too, but now there's an actual chance that it could potentially, possibly, perhaps actually happen, and even if it doesn't, this moment, right now, he will remember for the rest of his life, because he did it. But also, because he is in fact awfully competitive with a deep desire to win baked deep into his bones, he wants the gold more than anything.

He laughs, and the joyousness of the sound catches him off guard, and he falls backward onto the bed, still laughing, and only once he's gotten himself under control does he call Sam to see if he's going too.

*

Tomorrow, Steve will have to worry about his flight back home and how he's going to approach his training regimen between now and the summer, but those are worries for future him. Right now he's happy and excited and going to blow off his nutritionist's recommendations for the evening.

It did not escape his attention, and in fact the phone gossip line comprised of his teammates was all too happy to tell him, that Bucky Barnes also qualified for the Olympics, and he will hitherto be spending even more time with him, a prospect which, before this week, he might have met with only dread, but now he's looking forward to it with something approaching anticipation. Of course, there's still a little dread in there too, because there's no way Romanov didn't tell him what she overheard, and that might've spiked the whole thing before it even gets started; the whole thing being a potential friendship with a teammate that Steve had hate-thirsted about too freely and with too-great abandon.

Alas.

It’s worse because it’s really not his business why Fury had fast-tracked Bucky to the qualifiers. Coaches do it all the time for various reasons. The top two scores in the qualifiers make the team automatically, but the coaches have a lot of discretion as to who else makes up the team, and why wouldn’t they have that discretion at the qualifying level too? Also maybe someday Steve will learn to keep his big mouth shut.

The wretched feeling of knowing that he is the one in the wrong, if it comes down to it, sours the bubble of happiness that he's been floating on a little bit, but he swallows it down. He's going to go out and celebrate, and he hopes that it won't be a big thing between him and Bucky, but if it is, he'll just suck it up and apologize, and even if it's never the same easiness between them as it was the other night, at least, surely, they'll be able to work together on the same team.

*

The bar is crowded when Steve gets there. It's full of muscular, athletic people, because most of the people who didn't make the Olympic team are here anyway, drinking to their friends' successes, and the relief of it being over, even if they didn't make it. Steve spots Thor amongst a group of people over by the bar, laughing and tossing back pints, and he makes his way over there. He looks, but the only dark head he sees near Thor's is Loki's, not Bucky's. Loki at least looks as if he's enjoying himself, although not as loudly or obviously as Thor; the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile that's just this side of a smirk, and his body language is tilted in towards the taller man.

Steve greets his teammates and orders a beer, reveling in the sweet, temporary freedom to jam as many carbohydrates into his body as he pleases, and is just scanning the bar when he sees a sight that he'd been dreading without knowing he was dreading it: Bucky and Romanov with their heads bent together, talking about something at least a little more serious than what everyone else seems to be talking about, and worst of all as they look up, they catch sight of him and both look his way.

They don't look all that much alike, besides being white and attractive with high cheekbones, but there's something very much the same in the sets of their jaws and the intensity of their stares. They look like a couple of cats trying to decide whether or not to toy with the small animal in front of them. Steve doesn't know what it says about himself that he's immediately decided that he's the prey in this scenario, but he'd already come to the conclusion earlier that he's the one who owes an apology and needs to suck it up and say he's sorry—for his hyperbole, if nothing else. He starts walking towards them, and Romanov drops a peck on Bucky's cheek, winks at Steve, and walks away.

Steve, sadly, has no idea how to interpret either the kiss or the wink, but he braces himself and keeps walking to Bucky anyway.

"Hi," Bucky says, and his tone is pretty neutral, but somehow Steve has the feeling that he's maybe laughing at him a little bit, and if he is he doesn't blame him.

"Hi," Steve says and if a one word greeting can come out sounding a little breathless, then it does. Bucky looks good. Well, Bucky always looks good, but he's got on jeans that fit him just so, and a black button-down shirt with enough buttons unbuttoned that Steve can trace the line of his pecs with his eyes. The shirt is also, it must be said, sheer enough that Steve can absolutely place where Bucky's nipples are, not that he's looking.

Fine, he's totally looking, but he's trying not to be a creep about it.

"Congratulations," Steve says "we're teammates."

"How does it feel to be going to the Olympics?" Bucky says and then just waits long enough for Steve to open his mouth before adding, "with someone you hate." He's smiling as he says it. Steve doesn't know what to make of that.

"I don't hate you," he says.

Bucky looks at him. "Then why'd you say it?"

Steve sighs and prepares to grovel, or at least to explain himself. "This is so embarrassing." He takes a swig of his beer. "I've kind of joked about hating you for a while because you're so good and so hot, and I get resentful about it."

Bucky's eyebrows lift, seemingly of his own accord, and he gives Steve a look he can't interpret. "That's a normal response, sure."

Steve winces. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just..." He trails off. Bucky looks at him. "I know I'm competitive, and I know I can be an asshole. It's not any of my business and I know it, but I was maybe a little resentful because Fury waved you through. I'm sorry about that too. I shouldn't have."

Bucky sits still for a long second while Steve bites his lip and hopes he doesn't hate him. But if he's already fucked this up, that's on him. Then Bucky lets out a long breath, and says, "Wow. It’s amazing the way you picked up on the one thing I’m most insecure about." He takes a swig of his beer. "Not the part where I'm hot and talented, obviously, but the part about how I don't deserve to be here."

"I've fucked this up," Steve says out loud. He shouldn't have said a damn thing about this, not when they should both be riding the high of making it to the Olympics. "You deserve to be here. You got the top spot! Whatever it was that made Fury slide over the fact that you hadn't competed in a while, he was right to do it. You're going to get us the gold, Barnes."

Bucky stares at him for so long that Steve's half-convinced he's going to dump his beer on Steve's head. Then he clears his throat. "I thought you were calling me Bucky."

"Sorry," Steve says. "Bucky."

Bucky sucks in a long breath and stares at him. "You know Pierce was my coach," he says after a long minute.

"I know," Steve says. "You don't have to tell me—"

"I want to." Bucky looks up and his eyes catch Steve's. Steve can't look away. "You were honest with me."

"I was honest about being an asshole," Steve says. "That's not the same thing."

Bucky smiles, but it's not the same as the smiles he had last night. "I got injured on the rings. My shoulder. I wanted to sit the rest of the competition out. Pierce told me to keep playing. I really fucked my arm up. It's taken a lot of physical therapy to get me here. I wasn't sure I was ready, but when Fury gave me the chance..." He shrugs. "I had to try."

"You should, Bucky. God, I'm so sorry." Steve has known that Rumlow is a dipshit meathead with a growing collection of every kind of -phobia and -ism, with the exception of feminism, in his pocket, but he's never heard anything about Pierce. And yet, he doesn't doubt Bucky for a secondcan already look back at a list of career-ending or -pausing incidents and recontextualize them. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you're okay."

"Thanks," Bucky mumbles. Then he looks up. "Steve—"

At that moment, Romanov returns and sets down two more beers on the table.

"What did I do to deserve this?" Bucky asks, clearly surprised. She mutters something at him in Russian that makes him blush, and drifts off before Steve can say anything. Bucky passes Steve a beer and they clink them together.

"Listen." Bucky takes a swallow and sets his bottle down. "We're going to be training together, but..."

Steve's heart sinks. It was too much after all; he'd been too big of a dick. "But?"

"I'd like to see you sooner than that." Bucky smiles at him over the rim of his beer bottle, a little shyly.

"Why?" Steve says. "I was such a dick to you."

"Only a little bit of a dick," Bucky says. "Besides, you're hot and really talented too. Let me take you out sometime. Did you know I live in Brooklyn too?"

"Actually," Steve says, "I did know that. I've kind of been paying attention to you."

Bucky's smile turns satisfied. "Oh yeah?" He glances around. The bar is full of people celebrating or drinking away their disappointment. "Want to go somewhere a little quieter?"

Steve looks around. His friends are happy, talking and smiling. Thor is leaning in close to Loki, a smile creasing his face. Clint and Natasha seem to be involved in some kind of quarters competition with Sam and Maria. He doesn't think they'll really be missed, and besides, he's a big boy. If he wants to wander off somewhere with his crush-slash-rival-slash new friend, no one can stop him. "Yeah," he says. "Let's get out of here."

*

It turns out that the closest quiet place is, of course, the hotel. Steve follows Bucky back to his room. It's much quieter in the hotel corridor, and Steve feels suddenly and unexpectedly shy.

"Is this okay?" Bucky asks as he digs through his pockets for his key card. "I'm not trying to—I really do want to go out with you, Steve. I'm not just trying to get you back to my hotel room…"

Bucky looks so uncertain that Steve suddenly feels confident again, that moment of shyness washed away by the fact that Bucky likes him even though he was kind of an asshole, and the fact that the very handsome object of his hate thirst is standing hesitantly in front of him.

Steve leans against him and loops his arms around Bucky's neck. Bucky looks surprised but pleased. "Maybe we can go on dates and get to know each other _and_ I can come back to your hotel room."

Bucky smile gets a little bit stronger, and he unlocks the hotel door as gracefully as he can with Steve clinging to him like a ramora to a shark. Steve's been eyeing the muscles of his back and shoulders angrily for years; now that he has a chance to touch them, it's not like he's not going to do it. He can feel firm ridges of muscle under his fingers, shifting slightly as Bucky gets the door unlocked. Bucky pushes the door open and makes a sort of _you first_ gesture at his room, but Steve swings himself around and fists his hand in the collar of Bucky's shirt so he can drag him into his own room. His heart is pounding just as hard as it was when he got the call from Fury.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Bucky says softly once the door clicks closed behind them.

"Maybe in a minute," Steve says, equally quietly, and then he surges up on his toes to kiss Bucky.

Bucky's lips are soft, and his jaw is stubbled, and he kisses like he's desperately thirsty for Steve, which works out well, because Steve is desperately thirsty for him. He runs his hands down Bucky's sides, and then pulls him closer. Bucky makes a small surprised sound, but he kisses Steve more deeply and Steve loses himself in it for a minute: the feel of Bucky's mouth on his, the tease of his tongue, the way his hands slide over Steve's back.

They break apart, panting, hands tangled around each other. Steve's mouth tastes like beer and Bucky, and when he licks his lips, Bucky's eyes follow the movement. Steve makes himself take a breath, because while he wants Bucky more than he can remember ever wanting anything else, this is not _all_ he wants of him, and he doesn't want to rush things too much.

He makes himself pull away and rests his forehead against Bucky's for a moment. "How about that drink?" he says, and Bucky smiles and goes to the minibar to see what he has.

They end up talking all night, or at least, until Bucky's roommate gets back, clearly a little worse for celebrating. If they also happen to kiss and make out like teenage fools for some portion of that time, a gentleman does not kiss and tell, even when said gentleman has finally got his hands on the deltoids and pecs that he's been eyeing for years. Steve, being a gentleman, would not kiss and tell, but he does note in the private satisfaction of his own mind, that the muscles are just as firm and supple as they've always looked, and the skin on top of them is satisfyingly sensitive, and he _will_ be sliding a thumb over Bucky's nipple again to see if he can get him to replicate that desperate, breathy moan that he made when Steve did it the first time—for science, obviously.

It just so happens that they're on the same flight the next day; not that much of a coincidence, Steve guesses, since they both live in Brooklyn. They get seats next to each other, and it turns out the sad monotony of airports and airplanes is greatly enlivened when he has someone he likes talking to. If they don't kiss and make out as much as they did the night before, that's only because it would scandalize the third person in their row, an older woman with her hands full of a needlepoint project—and only because Steve doesn't want her stabbing him with one of the needles.

And then, because a plane ride isn't much of a date, Steve and Bucky immediately set a date for the following day. Is it moving too fast? Maybe. But Steve can't bring himself to care. He wants to see more of Bucky, because the guy he spent all that time resenting for being so hot turns out to be a really nice person, underneath it all, and a really fun date. One date turns into another, and then another, and then another, and then Steve guesses they're dating, and then Bucky casually tosses out the word _boyfriend,_ and one thing leads to another, and if they almost get caught fucking on the official gymnastics equipment at the Olympics, well, it wouldn't be the worst human interest segment leading up to an Olympics event that Steve's ever seen.

**Author's Note:**

> There are going to be two more parts to this! Please brace yourself for a PWP set at the Olympics which takes into account zero (0) actual laws of physics or muscle capabilities of people who, while still professional athletes, are not actual super soldiers, and a little resolution as to what Thor and Loki are up to. <3
> 
> many MANY thanks to Bookbee for helping me with the gymnastics terminology ([this website](http://www.codeofpoints.com/Floor-Men/) was very helpful!) and everyone on twitter who helped me figure out how athletes might find out they made the Olympic team. Please excuse any errors--my understanding of gymnastics is almost solely aesthetic, and I fudged a couple of things deliberately because they made the story more fun. :D


End file.
